


Always There

by devilishdiadem



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean is Sam's mother and father, Fluff, Gen, I always write dark themes and I need fluff, It ain’t wincest okay?, I’m going crazy with tags now oops, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Soulmates, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Quote: Sam and Dean Winchester are psychotically irrationally erotically codependent on each other, Sam and Dean are all I need, Sam and Dean are each other's parent, Sam and Dean take care of each other, Sam is Dean's mother, Sam is Sick, Sick Dean Winchester, Sick Sam Winchester, THERES FLUFF OKAY, a lot of fluff, dean is sick, i don’t read or write fics for the ships I write it for the characters, interpret it how you want idc, not wincest, what I'm trying to say is that Sam and Dean are codependent and that ain't a bad thing imo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:07:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28584735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilishdiadem/pseuds/devilishdiadem
Summary: Set directly after 12x13: Sam and Dean get sick and take care of each other. Chapter titles inspired by the lyrics of Champagne Problems by Taylor Swift
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 57





	1. Whiskey Problems

**Author's Note:**

> Ao3 messed with the italics but honestly I'm too tired to deal with it rn so I'm sorry some pieces aren't italicized. It's not super big parts though so, as long as you're not an idiot you can figure it out ;)

As Dean walked away, Sam stood up. 

“Sam,” Mary began, but he looked up at her and she stopped. 

“You should go,” he said. He stood there a second longer before leaving Mary and going after his brother. A moment passed, then he heard his mother’s footsteps on the metal staircase and the heavy door clanging shut behind her.

Sam knew where his brother was. He steadily made his way towards the gun range, the place Dean always went after a stressful situation like this. When he got there he didn’t say anything, merely leaned against the doorframe and watched as his brother reloaded a clip, aimed, and fired bullet after bullet. After the clip was empty, Dean lowered his gun and just stared at the target. Sam glanced at it, and even in this depressing and tense moment, he had to admit that Dean’s aim was impressive. In the heat of a fight, when certain skills were forgotten and it all came down to instinct, Sam would find himself forgetting Dean’s marksmanship. Moments like this reminded him of what a great fighter his brother was. 

“You alright?” Sam asked, glancing back to Dean, knowing full well he wasn’t. Neither of them were. How could they be after a fight like that?

“What do you think?” Dean snapped. Sam winced at the harshness in his tone, even though he knew the heat wasn’t directed at him.

“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean muttered a second later, lowering his head. “Didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“’s alright,” Sam said, shrugging it off and approaching. 

“She shouldn’t have kept it a secret from us. Let alone have been working with them at all. Not after everything they did.”

“I know, but… well, I don’t know.” Sam stopped and let the unsaid words hang in the air between them, melding together with the smell of gunpowder and the smoke from Dean’s gun.

“What?” Dean prompted.

Sam sighed. “I don’t know, that’s the problem. I don’t know how to feel. I can’t stand her right now for working with them, but at the same time I wonder what her reasoning was.”

“Oh, come on, you can’t honestly care about that, can you?” Dean said angrily, turning towards him.

Sam sighed. No. No, Dean was right. He didn’t really care about it. It had been hard enough trying to get to know the woman who’d been dead his whole life, bar six months, but then she left them again?

And then this? She comes back into their home, only to tell them that instead of working with her own sons, she’s working with the people who’d tortured him? The people who had held Dean in chains? 

So yeah, he wasn’t sure what to think about Mary anymore. Obviously she didn’t see family the same way Sam and Dean did. Sam and Dean knew that family didn’t end in blood.

But they knew it didn’t start there either. Just because they’re blood, it doesn’t give them the right to walk into your home anytime they want. It doesn’t give them the right to do something that betrays your love and trust, and yet still call you family. 

Sam and Dean didn’t talk a lot after that for the rest of the evening. They let their weapons and the sound of gunfire do the talking, along with a well-aged bottle of whiskey. They woke up around two a.m., leaning against the wall of the gun range, half on top of each other, guns still clenched in their hands and discarded whiskey glasses by their feet. 

It was two days after Mary had left that the first signs appeared. Dean would recognize them anywhere. Sam repeatedly told Dean that he wasn’t hungry, and that he just wanted to busy himself with tracking down Kelly or studying lore. He took longer than usual to skim through a book for information. He was even wearing one of Dean’s old t-shirts that had somehow made it’s way to Sam over the years. There were some small holes in it, but it was soft and comfortable. And of course, the big giveaway, Sam wasn’t making eye contact with Dean. 

Yep, it was definite. Sam was getting sick.


	2. February Flush

As expected, Dean woke up early the next morning to the sounds of Sam retching down the hall. The older Winchester made his way down to Sam’s room where the door to the bathroom was open, Sam’s ragged breathing coming from beyond the doorway. 

“Oh, Sammy,” Dean said, entering the bathroom to find his little brother sagged over the toilet bowl and shaking. “You’re alright, little bro. I’ve got you, you’re alright,” he comforted. He knelt down next to Sam on the cold tile and supported him. One arm across his little brother’s chest and the other resting supportingly on his back. 

“Did — did I wake you?” Sam mumbled, sounding guilty.

“Yeah, but I knew it was coming, don’t feel bad.”

“‘m sorry,” Sam muttered.

“Didn’t you just hear me?” Dean said. “You don’t have to be sorry for being sick, or waking me up. I’ve told you that so many times before, little bro.”

Sam sat up, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Hate being sick,” he muttered, sagging into Dean. Never would a completely conscious and self-aware Sam Winchester have sagged into his brother like this, but when sickness or pain or injury hit one of them, boundaries sort of flew out of the window. The whole “no chick-flick moments” rule sorta broke for a few days. Don’t ask them why. Maybe it was the co-dependency thing that the angels talked about behind their backs. Whatever it was, neither Sam nor Dean really cared. All they knew was that they were each other’s best medicine so screw it if they were judged.

“Don’t we all, Sammy,” Dean said, reaching up and resting one hand against the back of Sam’s forehead. “Don’t we all.” Yep. There was definitely a fever.

This bout of sickness was hitting Sam much harder than a bug or virus usually would. But after having spent six weeks completely separated and alone in a military prison, not to mention Dean losing his memory a couple of weeks before, and Mary deserting them just three days ago, it was no surprise that Sam was exhausted way beyond normal, and that the illness would hit him harder than usual. Not to mention, there was always the underlying stress of the job. Monsters, attacks, constant worry over yourself and your brother… it was the most exhausting thing ever, and yet also one of the most liberating. Didn’t make sense but, well, when has anything in their lives ever made sense?

“Alright, you think you’re done for now?” Dean asked quietly, gesturing wordlessly to the toilet bowl. Sam managed a weak nod. “C’mon, then, let’s get you back to bed.” Dean stood up, wrapping his brother’s arm around his shoulders. 

Sam was basically dead weight, but Dean managed to get him back to the bed and heave him onto the mattress.

“Alright, Sammy,” Dean said, more to dead air then to Sam because the man was basically passed out already. “You stay here, I’m gonna go get some stuff.”

Sam murmured something unintelligible before turning over and burying his head in the pillow. Dean watched him for a second longer before leaving to gather the things he needed. 

Water, crackers, washcloths, everything he usually needed when taking care of a sick little brother. 

Sam slept fairly peacefully for about two hours after that. Dean made himself somewhat comfortable at the foot of the bed and fell into a light doze, Sam’s socked feet laying on top of his stomach. He’d have tried to stay awake but with a sick Sam Winchester, you were better off getting sleep any chance you got. Around seven a.m., Sam woke up again and threw up. Luckily, Dean had had a trash bin ready at the side of his bed. 

“You’re alright, Sammy,” Dean comforted, rubbing his little brother’s back. “I know it sucks, it really fucking sucks, man, but you’ve dealt with worse.”

Sam hitched a painful chuckle. “You know, you always remind me that I’ve dealt with worse, but it doesn’t really help in the moment.”

“Wow, bitchy much?” Dean said, but his features were soft and empathetic as he took a cold washcloth over Sam’s face and to clean up the slight spatter of sick. 

“Shut up, jerk,” Sam mumbled, fumbling to push Dean’s hands away, but to no avail. At the moment he was much weaker than his elder brother. 

Dean smiled teasingly, then glanced at his watch. “It’s about seven-thirty, you think you could manage some breakfast?” 

Sam shook his head, going a shade paler. “No, ‘m just tired,” he said softly. “And achey and weak and shit, ugh… being sick sucks.”

Dean frowned. He hated seeing his little brother like this. “Alright, Sammy, you can go back to sleep but drink this first.” 

Dean stood up and handed Sam a fresh cup of water. “Hey.” Dean raised his voice slightly; Sam was already starting to drift again, but he came back when he heard his brother’s voice rise. 

“Drink this,” Dean said, holding out the cup again. “Then you can sleep a while longer. I’m gonna wake you up eventually though so you can eat, or at least try to eat something.”

Sam nodded, taking the cup from Dean with a shaky hand. He drank about half of it before making a gagging motion, so Dean let him stop there. Sam was asleep a few minutes after that. 

Dean pondered curling back up on the end of the bed, but decided against it when Sam started shivering a few minutes later and breaking out in a sweat. 

Dean closed his eyes and let out a sigh, his mind thinking of a scene from The Two Towers that was still fresh in his mind from when him and Sam had finished their yearly rewatch of the entire trilogy. The scene where the elves and men were gathered at Helm’s Deep, ready to wage war against the army of Orcs and Uruk-Hai. 

“And so it begins,” King Theoden states as the battle starts. That’s how it felt right now. Cold sweats, shaking, those were two of the first things that always hit Sam, followed by nightmares sometimes. He prayed and hoped that the nightmares might not be as bad this time. 

“And so it begins,” he muttered. Dean left momentarily for a cup of coffee but then he was right back at Sam’s side. While trying to keep Sam’s steadily rising temperature down, something Dean sadly had enough practice of that he could do it mindlessly, he found his mind wandering back to Lord of the Rings again. 

They had first watched the movies about ten years ago, a few weeks after Dad’s death. Sam had found them — somehow, he never specified where — and brought them back to Bobby’s where they had managed to start up an old player. Dean hadn’t been too interested at first until Arwen showed up. Figures that the hot, badass elf would be the sight to finally make him pay attention. 

Watching those movies with Sam, that was the first thing that had gotten him to smile, really smile, ever since John had died. Most of it was Sam though, not the movies. Sam correcting him on pronunciation of words or names; Sam driving him crazy with his facts about how things were different in the books, or Sam stealing the chips from Dean’s side of the sofa. 

Sam still did all those things, all these years later, but they were in a much better place now then they had been then. And they also had two bowls for chips, not just one. Dean smiled slightly. Ever since that time at Bobby’s, a yearly rewatch of the entire series was always tradition. They’d only missed it once. Three years previously. Dean tried not to think about that year very much. Times were better now.

Or at least they were in some cases, Dean thought. The most important cases anyways. Him and Sam had never been this honest and close with each other; they were the strongest team they had been since they were kids honestly. 

Dean was brought out of his memories as Sam’s breath hitched suddenly, sending him into a coughing fit. Dean’s arms instantly found Sam’s shoulders, helping him sit up with practiced ease. Dean hated that he was so good at this. Hated that he had to do it so often. If anybody deserved a life free of pain, it was his little brother. Nobody had gone through more pain than he did. He saved the whole fucking world. More than once. And the only people who knew the entire, unabridged story were either dead or standing here at his bedside as he coughed, coughed so hard that Dean was worried he might see smatterings of blood over the sheets.

Dean shook that horrific image from his mind as he got Sam to calm down and take a breath, easing the cough. Sam had barely opened his eyes for the whole fit, instead seeming to give himself completely over Dean. 

Dean had to admit, that was the one thing he sort of liked when Sam was sick. It was a lot like when Sam was little. He trusted him without question. Even after they had made up about Gadreel, there was still that break. Dean had given up trying to repair it completely. It was smaller than what he had originally hoped it would be to be honest, so he had decided to settle for what he had.

But when Sammy was sick? Or when Dean was sick? That crack completely vanished, melding together entirely, bringing them together like a piece of unbroken glass. Both of them reacting instinctually to every cough, groan, shudder, or wince. 

As Sam’s breathing steadied once more, Dean sat back down. It was gonna be a long day. 

Sam’s fever steadily rose, and Dean’s worrisome nature spiked higher than usual. He hated the thought, but Dean knew that if Sam’s temperature didn’t lower soon he would have to put him in an ice bath. The last time he had had to do that was when he had found Sam laying on a floor of a hotel, suffering from the Trials. Dean kept soaking towels and trying to cool him down, but he knew it wasn’t gonna do the trick. When a virus got to Sammy, it hit fast and hard, and only extreme measures could usually knock him out of it. 

Dean held off as long as he could, but around nine in the evening it got to the point to where Sam’s hair was soaked with sweat and Dean’s nerves were on fire. That’s when Dean knew he couldn’t risk it any longer. He started filling the tub in Sam’s bathroom with ice cold water, and while the sound of water filled the room, he tried to bring Sam into a state of at least semi-consciousness, but he had no success. 

Dean ran his shaking hands through his hair and took a breath. “Okay, Sammy,” he said, more to himself than Sam. “Let’s do this, little brother.” Dean pulled Sam into a sitting position. He’d leave Sam in his t-shirt and sweats for now and then change his clothes out after the ice bath. 

Getting Sam into the bath was just as hard as it had been the last time but Dean managed it. After leaving him in there for about five minutes, using his hands to soak Sam’s hair every now and then, the younger Winchester’s eyes flickered. It was hard to tell in the midst of the cold water, but Sam seemed to stop sweating and his forehead wasn’t blazing hot anymore. And now, clear blue eyes were staring up at Dean. 

Dean let out a gasp of relief. His heart slowed down a beat, and his hands stopped shaking. 

“D-De?” Sam mumbled, blinking as he took ahold of the situation and realized what was happening. When he took notice of the cold water surrounding him and drenching his clothes he sat up in the water with a gasp, grabbing ahold of the sides, and splashing the water all over Dean. 

“Thanks for that, Sammy,” Dean said softly. He put a hand on Sam’s shoulder and the other on the side of his face. “Hey,” he said, his voice even softer. “How you feeling?”

Sam blinked again. “Okay,” he mumbled. “T’red.”

Dean nodded and smiled slightly. “Yeah, I’ll bet. You’ve had a hell of a day, little brother.” He patted Sam’s cheek. “C’mon, I think we can get you out of there now.” Dean reached down and pulled the plug on the tub to let the water start draining out and grabbed a towel from the rack nearby. Sam was nearly dead weight, weak from fighting the fever, and then even weaker from having his body sent into shock by the freezing water. 

Dean shook his head fondly as he pulled Sam into him and let his little brother hang his head on the elder’s shoulder. He was starting to shiver from the soaked t-shirt and sweatpants that were on him. As he towel-dried Sam’s hair, Dean cursed himself for not having fresh clothes ready for Sam. 

“Okay, hang on a second, buddy, I’m gonna get you some clothes and put them in the dryer for a minute. Try and get your shirt and stuff off and then curl up in the towel, I’ll only be a minute.”

Sam, tired and clingy as he was, nodded mutely as he started to pull the t-shirt away from his skin. Dean hurried from the room, grabbing a new pair of sweatpants and another old t-shirt of his and heading towards the laundry room on the other side of the bunker. He tossed the clothes in the dryer before pulling them out after only about a minute and returning to Sam’s bathroom. By the time he got there, Sam was huddled in the towel on the edge of the tub. He was still shaking and pale but he looked a little bit more conscious. Or at least slightly more aware.

“Hey, nice job, little brother,” Dean said. “You didn’t pass out on me.” The thought had entered Dean’s mind. His imagination always went to the worst possible scenarios when Sam was sick or injured. Parental worry, Dean guessed it could be called. 

Sam was apparently conscious enough to declare that he didn’t need help from his brother to get dressed, so he took the warm clothes from Dean and gestured with a little push that he wanted Dean to wait outside. Dean rolled his eyes, but smiled inwardly. Even if he wasn’t using many words, Sam’s mind was clear enough that he knew what he wanted which was a very good sign that this recovery wouldn’t take too long.

Dean waited outside patiently while Sam got dressed, an ear always attuned to the bathroom door in case Sam needed something. Luckily, Dean didn’t hear anything and after a moment, the door opened again and Sam slowly walked out. He took a couple of steps towards his bed, but Dean held out a hand to stop him. 

Sam turned questioning eyes on him. 

“Your sheets are soaked, little bro. Now that your fever’s broke, you’re gonna sleep in my room.”

Sam frowned. “No, ’s okay,’ he slurred tiredly.

Dean smiled softly. “Yeah, right, c’mon.” It was a sign of how weak Sam was that he didn’t waste any effort trying to stop Dean from taking ahold of his arm and leading him down the hall to his own room.

The little bit of strength Sam had summoned to stand and get dressed on his own and was fading quickly. By the time they reached Dean’s room, Dean was almost carrying his little brother. 

“S’rry,” Sam mumbled into Dean’s shoulder as he nudged the bedroom door open with his foot. 

“It’s okay, Sammy, you had a hundred-and-four degree fever, I’m surprised you managed to make it this far,” Dean said. 

“Hundred-and-four?” Sam mumbled.

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, Sammy, hundred-and-four.”

Sam hummed as Dean lowered him off his shoulder and sat him down on the mattress, gently pushing him down onto the pillows. Sam’s eyes were closed as Dean lifted his Sasquatch-of-a-brother’s legs up and pulled the blankets up over him. 

There was a chair in the corner that Dean pulled over to the side of the bed, but as he sat down, Sam opened his eyes and lifted his head slightly. 

“What’re you doing?” he asked in a confused slur. 

“What does it look like?” Dean replied with a tired smile, resting his head on his hand so that he was looking at Sam lopsidedly. 

“Looks like you’re ‘bout to fall off that chair,” Sam teased, nestling down in the pillow again. “There’s plenty of room, Dean, just get some sleep.”

“Nah, I’m okay, Sammy. I should be awake ‘case you need anything.”

“Dee, I’m serious,” Sam said, eyes blinking heavily. “Trust me, I feel better, I’m just tired. I’ll probably sleep for a while. And you look dead on your feet, I can’t imagine what you went through today… or yesterday… however long I’ve sick.”

Sam was getting more and more tired by the second, but as fevered as he had been, he seemed firm in his apparent decision to not let Dean sit another whole eight hours in a crooked half-sitting, half-sleeping position. “Please, De’?”

Dean heaved a big, elaborate sigh as he stood up and shoved the chair back against the wall. Since Sam had gotten him wet during the bath, he’d changed into a different t-shirt and flannel. Now, he made a big deal out of pulling off the flannel and walking around to the empty side of the bed and flopping down upon it. True enough though, he was exhausted. Taking care of a sick, clingy little brother was never an easy job. 

As soon as he laid down next to Sam, fatigue washed over him and his vision went slightly foggy. He let himself breathe out and felt Sam roll over to face him. The heavy head of his little brother landed on his shoulder and an arm flopped over his waist. 

Dean’s mouth twitched as his eyes closed, his little brother’s weight giving him a calming sensation. He felt a slight chill go up his spine as the temperature seemed to drop, but he was asleep before his mind could think anymore about it.


	3. Flannel Cure

Dean woke up in a daze. Mind foggy, and head heavy, he opened his eyes. Sam was still sleeping on his shoulder, but suddenly he was sliding out from under his little brother and landing on the floor. A splatter of sick sounded directly after as stomach acid burned his throat and burned his eyes. Tears came then, pooling into his eyes and unable to be stopped. 

“Dean?” Sam’s voice came from above him a moment later, stronger than it had been before. Obviously, sleep had been good for Sam. Didn’t look like they could say the same for Dean though. Sam got up and came around the bed, mirroring the positions they had been in the other morning. Except this time, Dean was the one sick. 

“Dean, you good?”

“Do I look good?” he groaned.

Sam chuckled ruefully. “No, I can’t say you do, big brother. You gonna be sick again?” he asked.

Dean paused for a moment, breathed in once or twice, then shook his head. “No… no I don’t think so.”

“Alright, come on then, back to bed you go,” Sam said. He stood, careful to avoid the puddle on the floor, heaving Dean up with him. “This always happened to us, doesn’t it?” he said. 

“What does?”

“Us getting sick. Hits one of us first, then the other.”

Dean hummed. “I’ve probably just got the remnants of what you had,” he mumbled, his hands shaky as Sam guided them to his shoulders. “I’m sure as hell not g’nna let you put me in ‘n ice bath though. Not until I’m on my f’cking deathbed d’you get that privilege.”

“You gave me an ice bath?” Sam asked, surprised. Everything from before Sam had slept was obviously a long-distant memory. That didn’t concern Dean though; both of them usually couldn’t remember an hour during the time they were sick. 

“Mmhmm,” Dean hummed in response. “The fever… it wouldn’t break… scared me.”

“Sorry ‘bout that, Dee,” Sam said. Dean closed his eyes, his head loud and pounding. He felt the mattress sink underneath him as Sam lowered him down. Dean vaguely sensed Sam moving away before coming back to clean up the mess he had made on the floor.

“‘m sorry, Sammy.”

“Don’t worry about it, brother,” Sam said. “I’m tired, but I’m not that tired.” 

“I should move out of here,” Dean said, although he made no movement to do as he said. 

“Why bother?” Sam mumbled, resuming his place beside Dean. “We’re both sick, let’s just stick together.”

“Fair ‘nough,” Dean mumbled back. This time it was he who rolled over slightly, burying his face into the crook of Sam’s arm. He felt a bit chilled but had not the strength to grab a blanket. He needn’t have worried though. Sam laid something across his shoulders and a quick blinking of the eyes told him it was the plaid shirt he’d taken off the night before. 

“Th’nks,” he said into his little brother’s side.

“Get some sleep, De’,” Sam said, his tired voice a blanket of comfort around Dean’s aching head. “I’ll be here if you need something.”

“I know,” Dean whispered, his voice getting lower and lower. “You always are.”

Dean didn’t get near as sick as Sam did, but they both ended up spending the rest of the day in bed. One of them would get up every now and then to grab some water or go to the bathroom, but otherwise, they just crashed on top of each other.

Dean remembered Sam turning on the TV for a little bit during the afternoon, but it did nothing to soothe their headaches so he had it turned back off after about an hour and fell back to sleep, his head resting on top of Dean’s. 

They both slept well into the evening until Dean was woken up by the buzzing of Sam’s phone on the side table. Sam kept on sleeping but Dean was just barely conscious enough to reach over Sam’s form and grab it. 

Half-asleep, Dean managed to answer the phone. “Hello?” he grunted.

“Dean?” Mary Winchester’s voice startled her son but he was so weak from being sick and having slept so much that he could barely muster the ability to even feel shocked.

“What do you want, Mary?” Dean asked thickly. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on what was happening.

“I wanted to talk to Sam… and you… I’ve been calling you both but neither of you have been answering. I can’t really say I was surprised though,” she said.

“Well, to be honest I wouldn’t have answered just now if I’d known it was you,” Dean said tactlessly. If he hadn’t been sick and exhausted beyond recognition then maybe he would’ve had a little more tact, but as it was, he couldn’t give a rat’s ass about anything other than himself and Sam right now.

He heard Mary’s breath hitch at his cold words.

“Are you alright?” she asked after a moment. “You don’t sound well.”

“I’m sick, thanks for caring,” Dean said sarcastically. He rubbed a hand over his face, massaging his dry eyes and a light layer of scruff. A quick glance told him that both he and Sam would desperately need a shave once they were able to stand without support.

“Dean, of course I care, I’m your mother,” Mary said.

“Yeah, sure,” Dean began. “You know, if you’re our mom then why would you work with the people who tortured Sam? How could you work with them knowing what they’d done to him?”

Mary didn’t reply.

Looking back, Dean would’ve never said what he was about to had he been in his right mind. “Mary, you can call yourself our mother. But don’t call yourself our mom. Our mom died when we were kids and ever since, we’ve been taking care of each other ourselves. Dad wasn’t our dad, he was our drill sergeant. I raised Sam. I’ve been the one to take care of him his whole life. And since we got back hunting together, Sam’s been taking care of me too. So stop trying to be our parent. We have each other.”

Dean was done. He decided against waiting for a reply and hung up instead. He barely acknowledged the notifications of three previous missed calls from Mary before dropping the phone back onto the table with a clatter.

“Mom?” Sam questioned, apparently having awoken at Dean’s raised tone.

“Mmhmm,” the elder hummed in response, burrowing down in the blankets and flannel again. He didn’t say anything about Mary, instead choosing to ask how Sam was feeling.

Sam made a shrugging sort of motion with the shoulder that didn’t have Dean’s face buried in it. “Better, I guess,” he muttered. There was a brief pause; Dean recognized it. 

“You know, you didn’t need to be so blunt with her.”

“First of all, Sammy,” Dean began lifting his head. “She needs to realize that even though she’s our mother and that we love her, nobody can change what we are and we have done for each other our whole lives. And second, those British bastards tortured you, Sammy,” he continued, looking at Sam with protectiveness flaring in his eyes. “I’m not ever letting that go. How’s this not bothering you as much as it is me?”

Sam made a shrugging motion again. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “It does bother me. To be honest, I’d probably be feeling the exact same way you are now, if it had been you the British had been torturing and not me.”

“Yeah well, then there you go,” Dean said. “Except it was you they tortured. So lay off me.”

He put his head down again. All this talking was making his head pound again. He felt Sam laugh lightly. “Yeah, yeah, you got it, big brother.”

Dean sighed. He felt Sam’s breathing ease out once more. Back towards sleep, they both were falling. Before he fell though, Dean mustered enough strength to say one last thing. “‘m sorry I wasn’t there to keep you safe, Sammy. ‘m sorry you had to go through losing me and then dealing with that British bitch.”

“Don’t be sorry, De’,” Sam replied softly. “You couldn’t help it. You gave yourself up for me, for everyone, for the whole goddamn world. I don’t deserve you.”

“Don’t you ever say that,” Dean said, opening his eyes again and glancing up at Sam. “Don’t ever say that you don’t deserve me. You deserve everything good in this world. I’m the one that doesn’t deserve you.”

Sam shook his head. “Bullshit, Dean. You know what? You’re right though. I do deserve you. And you deserve me. We’ve been through enough shit in our lives to deserve each other. And I’ll say it again, don’t be sorry.”

“Yeah, but I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you that time,” Dean said. “No matter how many times you say otherwise, I will always feel guilty about that.” He felt Sam’s arm come up and rest on his shoulder. “I should always be there with you, to protect you. That’s what I’m supposed to do.”

“You always are, Dean,” Sam said into Dean’s hair. “Whether you realize it or not, you’re always there with me.”

Silence fell between them for a moment. A comfortable one. 

Then Dean smiled and chuckled softly. “You know, in a couple days, we are totally gonna get drunk and bury away all this fluffy, sappy shit away in whiskey and beer.”

Sam laughed out loud at that. “You’ve got a deal there, big brother. You’ve got a deal.”

Within minutes, both brothers were asleep once more. Dean’s face was buried in Sam’s shoulder, Sam’s breath fluffed Dean’s hair, and the outside world felt years away. Because in whatever sense of the word you meant, Sam and Dean were always there for each other.


End file.
